


forget what I need, give me what I want (and it should be fine)

by shiftylinguini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Clubbing, Drinking, First Time, Flirting, M/M, banana daiquiris, pyjama romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 07:04:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16676896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiftylinguini/pseuds/shiftylinguini
Summary: But even on those nights when the club is mad with punters and there are staff running ragged from one end to the other, Draco doesn’t need to be working behind the bar ― he just likes it. He likes the way he can watch the dancers move, see the ruddy flushing faces of the club’s regulars as they jostle elbow to elbow for the bartenders’ ― forDraco’s― attention, the music peaking and flowing around them.





	forget what I need, give me what I want (and it should be fine)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gracerene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracerene/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRACE!!! 
> 
> You are so wonderful, as a friend and co mod, and I hope you like this little something <3! I started this for your birthday last year, and then just sort of sat on it for a year LOL before finally tidying it up and making it (hopefully) presentable now. I included a few things you like, and I hope you enjoy my take on a fab pairing which you introduced me to!!
> 
> Lovely thanks to Llaeyro for looking this over, and to amazing Silv for being invaluable with their suggestions and feedback *heart emoji, aubergine emoji*
> 
> Title from Prime by Allie X

*

It’s 12:30 am on a balmy Friday night, and Draco’s club is heaving.

He doesn't need to be working behind the bar tonight; it really is _his_ club. He’s owned Primrose's for nearly ten years now, since its early infancy. Back then it was just a few tables and some dodgy lights, in a part of town any self-respecting wizard would never frequent. That was rather part of its appeal; Draco didn’t want a club in the middle of rolling wizarding London. He wanted something outside of that, somewhere he could quietly invest some money and time and carve out a little place of his own; a place for those like him. 

“A place for those of a certain persuasion”, his mother likes to say, nose wrinkling as she delicately dances around Draco’s sexuality like a Scottish sword dancer avoiding cut toes. ‘You mean a place for the wizarding queer, Mrs Malfoy’, Pansy likes to say instead, crimson lips puffing around her lilac Ziganov cigarette as they all sit in the parlour. Always had enough balls for three men, has Pansy. No one else would dare incur Narcissa Malfoy’s withering glare, and then simply blow a soft ring smoke in the face of it. 

And really, Draco is forty three years old in June; one would think that Narcissa might have come to terms with her son being gay by now, and being the owner of the most successful queer club in London to boot. Perhaps by the time Draco’s fifty she’ll be able to say the word ‘gay’ over high tea without having a minor conniption, or turning that particularly fetching shade of puce and clutching the embroidered tablecloth for stability. Draco has hope for her yet. 

In the meantime, he’s been busy. He's not one to let a little prejudice stand in his way, not after being raised on the stuff; he knows it’s all tosh anyway, built on insecurity and habit and sometimes on the backs of awful men with no noses, who use stonking big snakes to intimidate. Presumably to compensate, too. Draco’s well shot of that crap. 

There’s barely a night the club isn't packed nowadays, packed to the rafters and then out into the smoking terrace as well. There’s a bar out there, in the warm summer air, serving all manner of cocktails. Draco’s not sure what’s on the menu at any given time; he generally just lets Fabian have his way with the drinks. The man is some kind of booze savant, blending the most ridiculous ingredients into beverages which somehow work. Or perhaps they don’t work, and the patrons are too bedazzled by the swirling bright colours of the cocktails, and by Fabian’s brilliant Dutch accent and the flop of straw-blond hair over his forehead. Fabian has a wonderful way of making anything seem appealing by merit of talking about it with such genuine fervour that he could probably sell American whiskey to the Scots. He almost convinced Draco to wear chinos once, for Merlin’s sake. Draco luckily came to his senses, braving being the cause of a disappointed dull in Fabian’s perpetual charming glow. A man has to stick to his principles. though, and Draco will stick to his black jeans and white V neck when he’s working at the club, and a tailored suit at all other times, paired with brogues or a decent pair of leather Oxfords. There’s no room in his life for sodding chinos. 

Draco likes the club’s terrace bar, but he prefers to leave it to Fabian and his cohort. Draco’s always felt more in his element in the main bar. It’s near the dancefloor and the raised stage where they have drag shows every Saturday at midnight. They’re even booking bands and solo acts these days, for a Wednesday open mic night. They’re wonderfully popular, and Draco only feels too old for roughly 60% of the acts, so he’s counting it as a success. The club is making a roaring trade through drawing in patrons from the Muggle community too, on three nights a week when any and all overt magic is banned and the club opens its doors to all. _Statute Nights_ , Draco calls them. He’s still patting himself on the back for coming up with that one, even if Pansy insists he’s not that clever and he should cram a sock in it. Please. If he’s shoving any footwear in his mouth, it’ll be McQueen, and no argument. 

But even on those nights when the club is mad with punters and there are staff running ragged from one end to the other, Draco doesn’t need to be working behind the bar ― he just likes it. He likes the way he can watch the dancers move, see the ruddy flushing faces of the club’s regulars as they jostle elbow to elbow for the bartenders’ ― for _Draco’s_ ― attention, the music peaking and flowing around them. 

Plus, being behind the bar doesn’t half help him pull. 

Draco’s all too aware of this fact as he passes a drink and then smirks at a man who winks then grins broadly back. 

Any other night, Draco would be very keen to see where this might lead. The bloke is fit, dressed well enough. He looks like he’d know what he was doing. Draco hasn’t really been interested in picking up lately, though. Perhaps it’s the weather, the moon, his age catching up with him. He smiles cordially enough at fit-but-out-of-luck bloke ― and is faced immediately with James Potter’s exuberant grin and flushed, dimpled cheeks. 

 

“Hello, Jamie.”

“Hiya.” James’ smile widens at the nickname, and Draco leans his elbows on the bar, smiles back. He watches James’s cheeks flush harder in response. 

Draco is just self-aware enough to admit he was hoping to see James tonight. Draco might also be pretty that this fact is closely linked with why he hasn’t been interested in trying pull anyone lately.

James Potter has been coming to this club for the last two years. He first showed up, beaming and excited, right after he publicly came out on his eighteenth birthday and around the time his budding career as Seeker for the Falcons took off. His career hasn’t shown any signs of slowing up either, and whenever he’s in town and not playing abroad, James is here with his little circle of friends, dancing and drinking and nattering the night away in one of the small booths in the corner. And always, _always_ , making a point of coming to talk to Draco, ignoring the knowing looks of his mates and the annoyed glances from the other patrons as James clogs up Draco’s time. Draco usually has to call for someone else to come and take over from him. Draco really wishes he found himself bothered by this, but he finds it utterly charming. He bloody adores the kid. 

He suspects he’s not very good at hiding it either. Honestly, he’s not really tried to. James is fit, tall and just coming out the other side of gangly. He’s got a long mess of dark tangly hair that is a little too reminiscent of his father for Draco’s liking, but thankfully he’s got lovely hazel eyes. Draco quickly reels himself back in. It’s not the first time he’s been poleaxed by how good looking Potter’s eldest turned out, and it won’t be the last. No need for Draco to cause a scene. 

“It’s busy tonight, innit?” James says, almost shouting over the din of the music. He rests his elbows on the bar, mirroring Draco’s position and standing on the ledge at the base. It gives James an extra inch or two of height. Not that he needs it, being the beanpole of a person he is, but the bar is raised just ever so slightly and James has to lean forward to get into Draco’s space. The movement pulls the neck of his top down further, exposing his collarbone and the top of his chest. 

Draco deserves a medal for not staring down at the dip of James’s throat, or at the smooth skin of his chest just visible over the neck of his top. Draco mentally has to hand the medal back, though, when his gaze slips down of its own accord. 

“Exceedingly busy, yes,” Draco replies, making no effort to serve anyone else or rush the conversation along. “And what’re you drinking tonight, James?” 

Draco stands a little straighter and makes a deal with his eyes that if they stay on James’s face and don’t go any lower then he won’t have to poke them out later. It’s a good deal, but Draco finds there’s a flaw in it immediately when he can’t stop looking down at James’s mouth and the twist of his lips as he talks. 

“Umm, dunno really, haven’t had anything yet to be honest,” James answers, letting his arms slip closer along the counter until they bump against Draco’s. “It’s packed outside! Couldn’t get near the bar.” James is half-shouting in Draco’s ear, his breath almost close enough to lift Draco’s hair. Draco then waves another punter down the bar when they flick him an annoyed glance. Steph’s free down her end, and Eli’s moving quickly; Draco’s not cutting this conversation short for anyone. “So we lined up for ages, but then Macy’s favourite song came on, you know the one, it goes like ―” James purses his lips and starts to hum, then laughs and shakes his head as if realising how useless that is considering the thumping bass of the club. “Anyway, it’s her fave and we had a dance, then it finished and I skived off, to, uh.” James licks his lips, smiling a little more hesitantly but no less happily. “To find you, pretty much.”

Draco exhales, reminds himself forcibly of _Potter Stinks_ badges, and Ginny Weasley’s Bat Bogey Hex and not of the burning point of heat where his and James’s forearms touch against the counter. 

“You’ll have a vodka, then?” Draco doesn’t imagine the way his voice has lowered, the way he’s craning further forwards than he needs to. 

Vodka and soda will do the trick, Draco thinks, looking at James’s flushed face and the fact he clearly has just come from the dancefloor. Draco has only excellent vodka, and James will make a face at the choice of mixer but the water will do him the world of good if he’s been sweating it out in the heat of the packed dancers. He’ll wrinkle his nose, Draco predicts, at the taste of the booze when it’s unmasked by anything sweeter, and Draco will laugh and tilt his head forwards, then tease that some tastes simply must be acquired and might be unpleasant or bitter at first, and James will lick his lips, flick his hair out of his eyes and look at Draco like he knows _exactly_ what Draco is referring to. James’ll run his tongue over his lips again, slowly, then smile, just to make sure Draco knows that he gets it. It makes Draco’s stomach lurch, his lips twist into a smile, every time. 

It’s flirting with James like that that’s got him into this mess to begin with. 

Draco can’t seem to stop doing it. Whenever it happens, Draco thinks about kissing those lips, about the crooks of James’s elbows and how they’ll look when his arms are pulled up over his head, how his wrists would feel with Draco’s hands curled around them. For nearly two years now, they’ve been edging closer, getting more ribald and overt in their comments and ignoring the Erumpent in the room which is the fact that they’ll never do more. At least, Draco has been running on the assumption they would never outright acknowledge their mutual interest. James, apparently, had other ideas. 

As if he knows somehow exactly where Draco’s mind has wandered, James crowds even further into Draco’s space, then says, 

“Have you thought any more about, um, my offer?” 

Ah. James’s offer. 

Draco has thought about it every day, every night, for the last three days. He can feel the vibrations of the club’s music thrumming up his arms via the heavy counter he’s leaning on, can feel the way James’s eyes are staring intently at his, open and expectant and eager and just a little nervous, too. He’d looked the same on Wednesday night when he’d stood close to Draco as he was locking up for the night. 

“ _You know, if you wanted to hook up sometime, I would like that._ ”James had shrugged, casual and easy even as Draco stood still and tried to concentrate on what was happening despite the whirring of excitement in his ears. “ _Just think about it_.” 

James Potter wants him, and has made it abundantly clear that if Draco were so inclined, he could have him too. 

Draco can understand why, perhaps. He knows he’s a fair bit older than the lad, but that he’s also fit enough still. He’s a little thicker around the middle than he was in his thirties, but he likes it. It seems to balance out his height, taking him from lanky and lean to tall and well-built. The crow’s feet around his eyes, the lines at the corners of his mouth, make him look distinguished rather than tired, and he wears his years with pride. His mother often mentions there are spells to make him look younger, and Draco has considered them. There was a time, though, when Draco thought he might never smile easily again. The fact that his face is now creased in places from years of laughter feels like something he wants to keep, rather than spell away. 

There’s a chemistry between himself and James, too. It’s something that zips and buzzes over Draco’s skin whenever James is around. Draco knows he feels it too, that they both feed off of it. James is the loveliest thing Draco’s seen in the last ten, twenty, god knows how many years, and if he was anyone else Draco would have kissed him right then and there in the alley behind his club. He’d have taken James’s offer up on the spot, if he could. 

But he can’t take him up on it, Draco thinks, as he stalls for time and drops a slice of lime into James’s drink. Draco can’t take take James up on his offer. Not this apple-cheeked kid of only twenty ― not _Potter’s_ bloody apple-cheeked kid. Draco likes a risk, can admit he likes to live dangerously on occasion, but he's not quite ready to stick his head in that proverbial lion’s jaw and shag Harry Potter’s oldest son, no matter how sweetly he asks or how bright his eyes are when he pulls at his lower lip with his teeth as he earnestly waits for Draco’s answer. 

“I’ve thought about it,” Draco starts, slowly pulling back a little, but he can't stop the fond crinkle of his eyes, the interest he knows must be written all over his face and which he’s refusing to give into. “And...I think it might not be the wisest idea.” 

Draco watches James’s face closely. He moderates his voice carefully, schools his own face into something sympathetic but stern, and it’s as clear a let down as he’s ever given anyone. He’s braced for James to shrug it off, for him to bounce back from this as quick as lightning, but he doesn’t. In the face of this rejection, James’s boldness cracks, for just a moment. Draco isn’t expecting that at all. 

James could charm the pants off anyone, and would do it so bloody sincerely as well, but he’s shit at hiding how he feels. His emotions are always written across his features: happy, sad, bored, excited. Right now he looks dejected, that confident smile wavering a little, and Draco wonders suddenly if maybe he's got this wrong. Maybe this isn't a passing fancy for James, something flirty which he wants right now but will have forgotten about by the time he's washing some other bloke off his skin later tonight. James comes here a lot, but Draco suddenly realises he always leaves alone, or with his friends. He’s had boyfriends ― it’s come up in the conversation, little dropped remarks about James’s dating history ― but he doesn’t seem to pick up, doesn’t seem to bother flirting with any of the men who show an interest in him. Just Draco. 

“Yeah alright,” James says, smile back in place and as charming as ever, but the expression looks like it’s having trouble staying in place, like he’s feeling a little worse for wear and needs a moment to get his face back on. He's an open book, James Potter, and a fucking nice kid as well ― a bit overconfident sometimes, a bit too loud and brash, but he’s got a heart of sodding gold. He’s prone to laying his cards on the table, Draco thinks, and possibly too candidly given the way his expression keeps falling. Merlin, Draco wants him so much he thinks he might be able to hear his heart pounding with it. 

“You have a good night, James,” he says, passing over his drink. He feels an almost panicked tug in his chest. _You’re letting this slip through your fingers_ , he thinks as James steps down off the ledge and rests his feet back on the ground. There’s a final flash of longing, of heat, on James’s face as he nods and then turns to leave, and Draco pauses again. 

He can count how many times he’s seen someone look at him like that, with that genuine and guileless longing, that deep interest they’re unable to mask ― and it’s not many. He suddenly thinks, bugger who the kid’s dad is, and bugger the age gap, and bugger all the other reasons Draco’s been putting this off. Draco’s being an idiot, and if there’s one thing he won’t suffer it’s fools; like hell is he going to let himself be one. Before he can think better of it, he calls James back. 

“Yeah?” James asks, frowning slightly despite the hopeful expression, as he leans back on the bar. Draco beckons him closer with a crooked finger, and James cranes forward to hear. 

“Meet me for a drink,” Draco says, voice loud enough to be heard over the music but still quiet enough that only James can hear. “One drink. Tonight, when I finish here. It will be….say, half one?” 

“Really?” James’s voice is so soft, if Draco hadn’t been staring at his lips he might not have caught it. 

Draco nods, watches as James’s eyelids flutter in surprise before his face splits into a smile so wide and happy, Draco almost laughs. 

“Meet me upstairs.” Draco inclines his head towards a bouncer by a side door. “Don’t worry, nothing dodgy,” he adds as James’s smile widens. “It’s nicer up there, though. Just ask Lou to let you up, he’s the big bloke with the purple beard and arms like tree trunks. I’ll tell him you’re expected.”

“Okay,” James says, still smiling like he’s caught a jewelled Snitch. He looks like he can’t quite believe this is happening. 

As he turns away from James to serve the next patron, Draco thinks he can’t quite believe it’s happening either.

*

“Hiya. I have a date with a drink?”

James is looking remarkably perky for someone who’s been in a steaming club for the past few hours. There’s a little damp sweat at his temples, a smear of glitter over one cheekbone and even up into his hair. There’s even some peachy lipstick smudged over his collarbone. He’s clearly been having a good night. Draco feels a burst of pride at that, then a rush of fondness. He thinks this is why he opened the club in the first place, for people like James to make their own, and to feel free to do so. It’s Draco’s method of atoning, in a way, for all the prejudice he grew up with and insighted in his youth. At Primrose’s, Draco feels like he’s bringing people together rather than setting them apart, that he’s doing something to make it just a little bit easier for the next generation, rather than harder. This messy-haired young man standing in front of him feels like proof of that, somehow. Draco wants to bottle the feeling it instills in him. 

“Evening, Jamie.” Draco steps aside to let James in. The sound of the club still thrumming below follows James in before Draco shuts the heavy doors. The joint barrier of magic and solid metal blocks the music out. 

“I’ve invited you up for one drink,” Draco repeats. He’s clinging onto that statement in a futile effort to stave off what he absolutely knows is going to happen now that he and James are alone in Draco’s upstairs loft. 

Draco suddenly doesn’t want James to think he’s in the habit of bringing people upstairs on a Friday night, or any other night. Truth be told, Draco isn’t. He only furnished the loft so he could have somewhere to crash on nights he was working all hours when the club first started up, and now Draco just enjoys the convenience; he has a townhouse which serves as his home address and which is infinitely nicer, and he has other properties scattered about too. He is rather fond of the loft, though. It’s done up nicely, for what it is; it has more than enough room for a small kitchenette, a bathroom, some furnishings and a large bed. There are clothes propped on the back of his arm chair, some boots on the floor and paperwork on his small table. 

Draco watches James take it all in before his eyes move to Draco. He looks over Draco’s white t-shirt, the small damp patches on his shoulders from the drip of Draco’s hair; it’s not long, but Draco’s newly out of the shower, wanting to wash the club off of his skin. In the low light of the room, Draco can take in James, too: the curl of his hair at his jaw, the artful rips at the knees of his dark jeans and the high-top trainers which lace up past his ankles. His top is a black and grey striped affair, and he’s wearing an open shirt over the top, rolled up to reveal his forearms. It’s an odd combination, but it works on James, whose hair keeps falling over his eyes. Draco itches to smooth it back. 

“I’ve done this before,” James says abruptly, stepping closer. Draco believes him; James doesn’t really look nervous. Excited, though, and flushed and handsome. Draco wants to kiss him already. He hasn’t even offered him a drink. 

“And what is ‘this’, exactly?” Draco asks, but his voice is husky, and his hands are aching to touch James. 

He waits for James to answer, and James looks like he really will. But he also looks eager, almost ready to raise onto the balls of his feet as he looks from Draco's eyes to his mouth. When James kisses him, Draco supposes it's answer enough. 

It's not what Draco thought kissing James would be like, and at the same time it's everything he expected. James is gentler than Draco would have thought, more practiced. His lips are soft but his jaw stubbled, and his breath a little tinged with alcohol. It puffs against Draco's skin as James kisses down his throat. 

Undressing is no easy feat, given neither of them want to stop kissing long enough to do it properly. James gets Draco’s t-shirt bunched up around his armpits, then over his head, and Draco is pulling at James’s belt before he lets himself remember all of the many reasons why he shouldn't be doing this. None of them seem remotely important when James is trying to unlace and then toe his trainers off, when Draco can skip his hands down the back of James’s pants and squeeze his arse while James breathes wetly into the crook of Draco's neck. He moves his hand down to the crease of James’s thigh, squeezes again and James lifts up onto his toes and grinds his prick against the dip between Draco’s hip and his stomach. Draco’s cock is hard against the tight denim of his jeans, the press against him almost painful, and when James undoes his zip with practiced hands Draco almost sighs. He does make a sound when James immediately gets his fingers down the material of Draco’s pants, cupping him and then running his hand over Draco’s prick in a long, sure stroke. Draco thinks he might suck James’s neck hard enough to leave a bruise in response, but James doesn’t seem to mind. He’s giddy and almost laughing, one shoe on and the other thrown onto Draco’s sofa as he tries to start walking them towards Draco’s bed. 

“You should fuck me,” James breathes against Draco’s mouth in between messy kisses.

“Should I?” Draco kisses down James’s neck to the dip of his collarbone, buries his words there. 

“Yeah.” James gets his other shoe off, laughs breathily as he kicks it away. “Yeah, you should.” 

“Alright then, sweetheart.” 

It's a miracle they make it to the bed at all, a slow tangle of long limbs and half-shed clothing, their jeans around their thighs and Draco’s boots still on. Draco fumbles open a drawer, finds lube as James pulls the rest of his clothing off then settles in his lap, finally naked and hot and moving insistently against Draco. He’s not laughing anymore, but he keeps smiling as he drops breathless kisses onto Draco’s lips and jaw. His breath hitches when Draco thumps the cap of the lube open, and when he drops a dollop of lube onto his fingers then runs them around James’s hole, James’s posture tenses then relaxes. His face creases into a frown, teeth pulling at his bottom lip as Draco presses one long finger inside. Draco can’t decide what he likes more; James smiling and breathless, or his face creased in pleasure and anticipation for when he will add that second finger. Both, he decides, as he slips both fingers in to the second knuckle, out again and then back in deeper still. 

He pulls back to add more lube, and James spreads his legs wider, pushing back into Draco’s hand and kissing messily over his mouth now. Draco crooks his fingers, letting his fingertips brush over James’s prostate and then smiling himself when he feels James jolt a little with it, moaning against Draco’s mouth. Draco sucks James’s bottom lip between his own as James’s body goes both more pliant and more tight with arousal at the same time. Draco pulls his fingers out, letting James kiss him slow and deep and filthy as Draco removes the last of his clothing. James sits down on Draco’s leg, the slide of lube dirty and promising as James rocks himself against Draco’s thigh, shifting his hips back and forth. 

“Ready?” Draco rumbles, hands on James’s arse, lifting him gently as James kisses over his collarbone, then licks over the dip of his throat. 

“Yep.” James’s hair tickles Draco’s chin as he nods, his cheeks flushed and his smile a little dazed but still there, lighting up his face and making Draco’s dick twitch. Draco isn’t sure when his libido got so sentimental, if this is something James has done to him or if Draco’s weakness for wholesome twenty-somethings has just gotten truly out of control since he turned forty. “Obviously ready,” James adds against the shell of Draco’s ear, grinning almost cheekily as he rolls his hips, hard prick leaving a damp trail against the hair at Draco’s belly. 

Draco tries to think of something clever to reply with, but his upper brain function has never been great when his dick is out and there’s someone lovely in his lap, so he settles instead for murmuring, 

“Behave, Jamie.” 

Draco smirks when he sees James’s breath hitch against his skin ― _we’ll explore that later_ , he thinks ― then lets his hands slip to cup James’s arse and spread his cheeks. He lets his fingers spread them even wider as he murmurs a protection spell, feels the magic of it thrill through James as he settles himself more fully in Draco’s lap, lips still pressed against Draco’s neck and his prick hard against Draco’s belly. 

James really has done this before, Draco thinks as James sinks down on his cock, sitting upright and slowly lifting off before sliding easily down again. He rides Draco slowly at first, then ups the pace, small snaps of his hips that make James’s stomach tense, his mouth drop open. Draco rests his hands on James’s hips, palms cupping over the slight jut of them and then sliding to his softer middle as James moves himself, forehead creasing under the exertion and his prick full and thick between them. When Draco begins to lift him, watching the muscles working in James thighs, James nods frantically, smiling as his hair falls over his eyes. 

“Yes, fuck, I like that, yes,” James babbles, like he's someone who talks a lot in bed and has been trying to hold it in. Draco doesn't want him to, and when he starts to lift his own hips up, to use his hands to bounce James on his prick, James falls forwards, smiling deliriously and muttering a steady stream of gasped words and platitudes into Draco’s shoulder. 

“Fuck, yes, like _that_.”

“Come here, Jamie.”

Draco flips James onto his back, pulling his arms above his head so he can kiss and suck down the inside of his arms. James makes a sound when Draco kisses down to the almost-dip of his armpit, and then another when Draco slides his cock over his entrance. James kisses Draco’s jaw, down to his neck, and presses his lips together on a loud moan when Draco thrusts back inside. Draco begins to move shallowly, then deep and quick, and James likes that even more. The rhythm Draco sets is fast, and the bed shifts a little beneath them. Draco can barely hear the creak of it under his own harsh breathing and James’s rough groans. James's wrists feel perfect in Draco’s hands, as Draco runs his hand along James’s sweaty arms and then down to his stomach, then lower to his legs. He pushes James’s thighs up towards his chest. _Bendy_ , Draco thinks inanely; James is just as flexible as Draco had imagined he might be, and he sinks in deeper, watching James's eyelids flutter and his mouth drop open on a low moan. Draco gives up thinking after that. 

Draco fucks them halfway across the bed before he’s even noticed it, the wall coming into sudden sharp focus, and he cradles one hand around James’s head. James is too gone to notice the potential for any kind of sex injury, his knees brushing Draco's sides and his heels tapping at Draco's hips as he huffs breath and after hot breath against Draco's shoulder and chest. 

“I'm gonna ―” 

“Yes, touch yourself, go on.” 

“Oh _god_ , Dra ― Draco, I'm ―” 

“Yes, fuck.” Draco buries his face in James’s neck, breathes down the scent of his skin, his hair, as he snaps his hips forwards. James’s fingers press into Draco's back hard enough to leave a little ring of marks as he pulls at his cock. James’s legs begin to shake just as Draco shifts his weight then wraps his own hand around James’s, the both of them working over James’s prick as he tips over the edge. James cries out when he comes, so loud it's almost a shout, his body curling in on itself. His hips lift off the bed, arse clenching as he presses his forehead to Draco's shoulder, gasping over and over again as he spills over their fists and onto his own stomach. Draco follows him soon after, moaning around the knowledge that he pulled that sound out of James, that _he_ made him feel that good. 

There’s a long moment of tangled breathing and too-hot limbs before Draco collects himself, enough to pull out and lay down on his side. James makes a face at the sensation, one arm coming up to lie across his face. He’s sweaty, his chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath, and Draco watches him, not thinking much of anything at all. He always feels like that after good sex, his mind a wonderful and blissed-out blank. It takes him by surprise, then, when James sits up, knocking Draco onto his back and slinging a leg over Draco’s thighs. He lets his arm land across Draco’s chest, tousled head on Draco’s shoulder, and Draco is amazed to find that within moments James is asleep. He’s sticky, and sweaty, and covered in come, and already breathing soundly against Draco’s skin. That’s got to be some kind of record. 

“A cuddler then, are we?” Draco runs a hand down over James’s arm and then Summons his wand, knowing full well that James is beyond answering. 

Draco almost adds, _and you’re staying the night too, I see_ , but why bother, really. He was never planning on asking James to leave, and he would have been disappointed to see him go. He cleans them both off quickly with a flick of his wand and a Summoned warm flannel ― some things really are better with a manual touch ― and hums at the slight moan from James when Draco runs the warm cloth between his cheeks. 

Draco’s not much of a cuddler really, at least not usually. He finds he likes the way James fits against him, the way his head tucks up under Draco’s chin. Draco can never usually sleep with someone else wrapped around him, though. He wonders for a moment how he’ll manage tonight. 

In the end, he’s drifting off, lulled to sleep by the soft rise and fall of James’s chest before he can even really finish the thought.

*

In the morning, Draco wakes with the early rising sun in his eyes, having forgotten to close the blinds on the loft’s small window the night before, and a face full of unruly hair.

He squints then lets his eyes slide shut, arching his back just enough to stretch the crick out of his neck without jostling James awake. Draco is amazed to see that he didn’t shrug James off in his sleep. Perhaps James just had a really good grip on him; he is used to riding brooms, after all. He barely even stirs when Draco sits up to wave his wand at the blinds and lets them cover the window, muting out the bulk of the blinding morning light. Draco lets his elbows rest on his knees, forearms hanging limpy. He drops his wand, then yawns widely. His hair is a mess, he can feel it. James’s is worse though, Draco observes as James burrows into the warm space Draco’s recently vacated, his thigh against Draco’s and his face tucked into the pillow. James’s hair is a riot, and he is very, very naked. The sheets have slipped down to the top of his thighs, just under his arse, and Draco reaches out to pull them up. At least, he starts out with the intention of doing that. He ends up trailing a finger down the inside of James’s leg instead, watches goosebumps raise in its wake. He cups James’s arse cheek.

Draco was right ― James _is_ a heavy sleeper ― but he shifts quickly against Draco's hand, pushing back into it as he lies on his stomach. Draco doesn’t do more than touch, a hand in the small of James’s back sliding down to his arse, to the crease of his thigh, and then trailing back up again, until James is fully awake and rolling his hips into the mattress. 

“Morning,” Draco says when he meets James’s eyes. James smiles. 

“‘lo,” James mumbles thickly, licking his lips and crooking one knee up higher against the mattress. “I liked that,” he adds when Draco’s hand stills. He hums, hips pushing down against the mattress and spreading his legs a little wider when Draco runs dry fingers over his hole. “I like that, too,” James breathes out, and it’s only a little muffled by the pillow. James presses his face against it, and Draco can see his cheek flush as he pushes back a little against 

“Would you like more?” 

“Yeah,” James licks his lips, turns his face further away from the pillow. His breath hitches a little when Draco uncaps the lube, runs one wet finger over James’s hole. “You have nice hands.”

“Do I?” Draco spreads James’s arse cheeks with his other hand, then swings one leg over the back of James’s thighs, sitting down across them. 

“Yeah,” James says again, his voice lower this time. His hips are moving in short grinds against the mattress, his skin warm. “Nice fingers.” 

Draco feels himself flush a little at the compliment. James sighs when Draco rests the tip of one against James’s hole, smearing the lube around. “I like watching you make drinks.” James is mostly talking into the mattress, the muscles in his back flexing slightly as he rolls his hips down against the bed, then back against Draco’s hands. It’s slow, almost lazy, and somehow more intense because of it. Draco loves it. 

“Is that why you’re always hanging about the bar, then?”

James laughs. “Yeah. And you’re funny, too. And really tall. Have nice hair. Always dress nice.” Draco raises an eyebrow, watching James’s cheek dimple into a grin as he rattles off an unexpected list of reasons he’s been frequenting Draco’s club for the past two years. “And you never, like, treat me different ‘cos of my name. My last name.” James clarifies, as if there could have been a chance Draco would think he was inclined towards against a prejudice regarding people named James. “You were just nice.”

There’s a timbre in James’s voice that sounds like he’s confessing something here, and it does something warm and unexpected to Draco’s chest. Draco had known who James was the first time he stepped into the bar, had recognised him from the Prophet’s announcement of his Quidditch debut and the smiling photo of a beaming James next to his proud as punch parents. 

In all honesty, Draco had been braced for a chilly reception from James himself, based on nothing other than _his_ last name; he wasn’t exactly persona non grata these days, but he was recognizable enough, and not often for good things. Draco had accepted that, was braced for it when Potter’s oldest son walked up to the bar through the throng of people. He wasn’t really braced, though, to see that flash of recognition in James’s eyes as he ordered his drinks, and then… Nothing. Just a perfectly normal interaction. The same unwavering smile, there again when James came back to buy shots for himself and two friends, and then again later when he asked for “ _anything that’s flavoured banana, because my friend Jason says there’s no such thing as banana booze and he’s a wanker,_ ” and then stayed at the bar drinking Jason’s banana daiquiri and telling Draco stories that never seemed to go anywhere, but which Draco weirdly liked hearing all the same. 

They’d never even introduced themselves that night, both knowing who the other was, and both knowing that each other knew, but it somehow was never weird. When James had left hours later, slightly wobbly and red of cheek, he’d told Draco he could call him Jamie. Draco had paused for a moment, then replied, “All right. Stick with Draco for me, though. Mr Malfoy is my father.” He’d again been braced for some kind of reaction from James, but there was nothing. Not a flinch, not a ‘oh, I’ve heard ‘bout you, get fucked.’ Just James struggling into his coat and grinning and trilling, “Okay, see you next time then, Draco!”

He isn’t quite sure how to say that though, that James not giving a stuff who Draco was in the past and liking him now because he just _does_ feels like the most thrilling and wonderful thing Draco’s encountered in years. There aren’t really words for that kind of feeling, at least none Draco can find. James, in his own way, seems to have done all right expressing it. 

He kisses James’s shoulder softly instead of talking, and then kisses it again as he slips the tip of one finger inside him. James sighs with it, relaxed and eager. 

“But mostly it’s my fingers you’ve been coming for, right?” Draco asks. His voice sounds rough, stupidly fond and something else as well. There’s an emotion still lodged in his chest, something wonderful probably.

James stutters a laugh, the last of any tension from his slightly candid admission bleeding out of his shoulders. 

“Yeah. That and you give me free drinks sometimes.”

Draco laughs against James’s skin, kissing down his back and moving his finger slowly. 

“Because you flirt with me.” Draco can feel the huff of James’s laugh against his lips as he moves them back to James’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, I do. _So_ much flirting.” James spreads his legs wider, as wide as he can with Draco sitting on them. He makes a small sound of frustration, trying to take Draco’s finger in deeper, and Draco adjusts his position.

James watches over his shoulder as Draco slips two lube slicked fingers inside him. James moans thickly, arching his spine. 

“Sore?” Draco asks, moving his fingers slowly, letting his free hand drag over James’s skin. 

“Yes. No. Little bit, but the good kind. Keep doing that.” James arches his back again, curves his spine as he buries his face into the pillow then bites down. 

Draco looks at the stretch of James’s hole as his fingers slip inside him, at the perfect curve of his back, the mess of his hair, and the lightly tanned skin over the tops of his shoulders. He slips his own hand between his legs, far more turned on that he realised as he brushed his thumb over the head of his prick. It comes back wet, and he pumps his cock into the curl of his fist as he rubs tight circles inside James, crooks his fingers in a beckoning gesture and finds his prostate. 

Draco comes faster than he expected, spilling over James’s arse and the tops of his thighs with a guttural groan. Draco doesn't stop moving his hand until James grinds his hips down hard, arse clenching around Draco’s fingers. He comes loudly and all over Draco’s expensive sheets, smearing over his own belly, the blankets still tangled around one ankle. They doze again after that, James pulling Draco's arm around him and nestling his back against Draco’s front. The room smells of sex, of messy sheets and hot skin. The best parts of lazy morning sex, Draco thinks, as he yawns into the back of his hand. 

It's early afternoon when they wake again. Draco wonders for a brief moment about how he should approach this, if there is a conversation they need to have here along the lines of, “I’m old enough to be your father, and speaking of which, he’d probably like to throttle me right now”, but what he does is kiss the top of James’s head. James is gorgeous, warm and pliant from sleep. Draco decides he’s been over this enough in his head. 

There’s no need to start chatting over the future, the past, what to do next and if there will even be a next. He allows himself to just enjoy it for what it is. A beautiful young man, his exhilarating company, and all the potential that brings with it. Sometimes things really can be that simple, if Draco allows them to be. He’s learnt that over the years.

He sets it all aside, and gets up to make some breakfast instead.

*

Draco Malfoy, master of the bacon sandwich.

It's one of the few things Draco knows how to cook. What else did he need to know, when there were always elves to cater for him, really. He’s rather proud of his self sufficiency now - even if it only extends to breakfast. 

James pads into the kitchenette eventually, lured by the smell of frying food. He standing by the counter in just his boxer briefs and a half done-up shirt. Draco recognises it as one of his own; James must have nicked from his wardrobe. Awfully familiar of him, Draco thinks, but he’s smiling. He likes that James has helped himself to Draco’s clothes, that he slept in his bed without asking first if he was allowed to stay. James knows what he wants, and Draco likes that in a person. He likes that in James, especially. It’s a small but pronounced reminder that James has done this before ― gone to bed with men and women, and worn their clothes in the lazy morning after, and that he’s the one who pursued this very thing with Draco. Draco feels both proud and calmed by that. 

James looks rumpled with sleep, messy almost-curls just brushing the starched tops of Draco’s collared shirt and his long legs bare. It’s all a bit decadent, and Draco tells him so. 

“I look decadent?” James looks thoughtful. “You’re the one wearing black satin pyjama bottoms.” James raises his coffee up to his lips, smiling over the rim of it. Draco looks down at his legs, then back at James. He flips a strip of bacon. 

“They’re very comfortable.”

James’s face splits into a grin. “I bet they are.” He hops up onto the kitchen counter, swinging his feet slightly. “Always wanted a pair,” James says. Draco can’t quite be sure if it’s genuine, or teasing. He’ll take either. 

“Have you now?”

“Yep.” James bangs his heels against the cupboard door, makes a face. “Always wondered if they actually felt nice, or if they were just, like.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Really expensive.”

Draco hums in acquiescence. 

“I’ve another set.” Draco sets their laden plates down at the table, then walks back to the kitchen counter. He stops when he reaches James, his knees bumping against Draco’s thighs. James easily slides his legs open and Draco steps between them, trying not to think too much about how James would look with dark satin slung low on his hips. 

“Yeah?” James widens his legs further, letting Draco crowd him as he tilts his face down towards Draco’s. “Reckon they would maybe fit me? This extra pair of yours.” 

James’s voice is quiet, his face doing that open-yet-bold expression that Draco thinks he’s finally pinned down as James’s version of nervous uncertainty. Draco can’t figure out why satin pyjamas would make James nervous, until all of a sudden he does. James is asking, _can I wear your spare set of PJs?_ but what he really wants to know is, _can I come here again?_

“Well,” Draco smiles against James’s mouth, kissing him once, and then again quickly. “You ought to try them on.” Draco kisses James again, softly. “Next time you come around, that is.” 

He’s answering both the questions James asked, and the one underneath it, and when James kisses him back, one hand in Draco’s hair and the other at his waist pulling him closer, Draco thinks he’s read James right. It feels oddly thrilling. Draco finds that most things about James do, if he’s honest. 

It’s going to be a headache. Seeing James again is going to come with an inevitable fall out, with the clash of the surnames and all the history they each carry with them. It would be foolish to think otherwise, and Draco is nothing if not a pragmatic man. 

_Fuck it, though_ , Draco thinks, that little kernel of reckless bravery still rattling around inside him. He’s lived through worse and he’s not going to let the fear of the unknown stop him from living now. 

James pulls him closer, and Draco decides that the feeling of James’s legs around his waist and the shape of his smile as they kiss is worth it.

*

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr tumblr tumblr!! ](https://shiftylinguini.tumblr.com/)<3


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